The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny II!
by Lampito
Summary: Plot bunnies: they're evil little... things. They nibble on your brain until you write a chapter, and won't always deign even to give you the outline of a plot. They want attention, but won't always cough up. But maybe we can make the little... wretches work for it.
1. Meet The Candidates

_Lampito sits in the corner, and rocks back and forth_

**Lampito (sobbing quietly):** Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop...

Yes, folks, just when I thought I might get a little break from plot bunnies, not one, but TWO of the little... darlings hopped out from behind the monitor, and WOULD NOT SHUT UP until I agreed to listen to them. One of them is ENTIRELY THE FAULT of Leahelisabeth, I suspect.

The little... dears only have a very vague idea about actual story lines; they each dictated an opening chapter, then disappeared again. But we know how these little... critters work: sometimes, giving them an airing, and a bit of encouragement, will coax them into being forthcoming with more chapters, and an actual plot.

Last time I had this problem, I turned to the Denizens of the Jimiverse for help, and that worked quite successfully, so, I present to you, the next episode of...

_**THE JIMIVERSE'S NEXT TOP PLOT BUNNY!**_

First, we have the pre-event entertainment, which will consist of Tyra Banks being torn to pieces by dogs of Hellhound heritage!

_Ms Banks is pushed out on stage; a pack of dogs, of varying degrees of Hellhound blood, attack her. Screams are heard. Blood flies. Jimi Junior does a lap of the stage, triumphantly clutching a hair extension in his mouth. Crowley appears briefly, and takes the opportunity to put the boot in, then bows to the crowd. Audience applauds._

But now, let me introduce tonight's bunnies.

Bunny Number One is a cute little thing all the way from Canada, and he has an idea about a Hunt where Sam and Dean head off on what's supposed to be a quick and easy job, but it goes pear-shaped, and their kids RJ (aged 12) and Frankie (11) have to save the day, possibly with the aid of the gargoyles from Singer Salvage, Tiem and Zan.

Bunny Number Two has slightly more bloodthirsty tendencies, and wishes to open with some serious hurt!Sam and protective!Dean, in which Sam is badly wounded in a Hunt in Oregon, and bleeding out. With no way to get him back to the car, and desperate not to lose his brother, Dean resorts to desperate measures – it's the full moon, so he makes arrangements for Sam to get bitten by a werewolf. It saves his life, and Bobby assures them it can be reversed, since they have the co-operation of the wolf that turned him, but Sam must spend a lunar month as a werewolf. And Dean must spend a lunar month with a baby brother who's suddenly eating more red meat than he is, can drink him under the table, is exuding alpha-male pheromones wherever they go (and frankly getting more ass than a toilet seat), and is acting like an honorary adopted pup of the Jaeger clan.

So, sit back, watch their performances, and vote for a bunny, then send your inspirational thoughts in its direction, and we'll see if anything amusing transpires! Ommmmmmmmm!


	2. Plot Bunny 1: Winchester kidfic

**Bunny Number One**

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

They yanked on the rope.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

A twelve year old boy, and an eleven year old girl, hauled on the sodden hemp as hard as they could.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

Behind them, two Rottweilers, back legs scrabbling in the gravel, helped.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

With a twanging sound, the ancient cordage, which had quite possibly once seen service as a mooring line, let go, and all four of them ended up sprawled on the ground.

"This isn't working," Frankie stated, brushing herself off and peering at the tangle of junk that really didn't look like it had shifted at all. "Even with Thor and Athena helping." The female nudged her head under Frankie's hand, soliciting pats. "You did really good, 'Thene," she praised her dog.

"There's too much stuff all tangled together," RJ agreed, considering the problem, as his own dog Thor sniffed curiously at the mess of metal. It was the nature of a junkyard, he supposed; stuff got dumped, stuff got moved, stuff got shoved on top of other stuff, it all got stuck together unless it was purposefully, carefully stowed to begin with. "It could be stuck in the ground, too."

"It has been here for a while," conceded his cousin, shoving experimentally at what looked like the mortal remains of an old tricycle. It barely shifted. "Some of it could be rusted together."

"Maybe we need to move more from off the top," mused RJ.

"Uncle Dean always says, if at first you don't succeed, get a bigger engine," Frankie reminded her cousin. "What we need here is more grunt."

"No way," stated RJ firmly, "Absolutely no way. I've only just started havin' lessons – if I try to get the keys, and get the car down here, Dad will kill me. If I'm lucky. More likely, he'll ground me until I'm thirty, and I will never ever be allowed to drive his Baby again."

"Not the car, you moron," Frankie rolled her eyes in a way that left absolutely no doubt that she was Sam Winchester's offspring, "I mean more muscle power."

"They won't come and help," RJ said gloomily. "Dad and Uncle Sammy and Grandpa Bobby are only leavin' us alone out here because they think we can't shift it."

"I wasn't thinking of _them_," Frankie sniffed disdainfully.

RJ's eyes strayed to where their fathers' dogs, Xena and Zeus, were lounging with their ageing dam, Rosie, and elderly Rumsfeld, under the gnarled and spreading rosemary bush. "They look kinda comfy exactly where they are," he grinned ruefully.

Frankie groaned theatrically. "Men," she humphed, with all the misandry a precocious tween could muster, "Their brains are all testosterone poisoned. I said, we need more _muscle_ power."

Leaving the corner of the yard where the two cousins had been attempting to extract a particular piece of discarded machinery, she marched back to the front of the yard, towards the gates. Two stone gargoyles, clutching travel mugs (which nobody ever seemed to notice) sat sentinel atop them.

"Tiem! Zan!" called Frankie, "Can we borrow you guys for five minutes?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's awful quiet out there," muttered Bobby, peering into his coffee.

"Good," humphed Sam, tapping at his laptop's keyboard, "It doesn't happen that much with kids their age; enjoy it while it lasts."

"It's a nice change from Hurricane RJ," Dean conceded.

"You're not listening to me," grumped Bobby, "That's two Winchester kids out there! And when two Winchester kids go quiet, it's time to start worryin'..."

The door banged, and RJ announced his presence with his usual shout. "It's just us!" he yelled, heading straight for the cookie jar.

"Oh, goody," snarked Sam, "For a moment, I thought it was a door-knocker, fundraising for the Society For Terminally Shouty People."

"We need more cookies," RJ peered into the jar as he stuffed one into his face.

"Oh, I'll have the cook get onto it right away, sir," Bobby performed an extravagant bow. "Anythin' else you'd like the servants to do for you?"

"That would be just spiffy, Robert," trilled RJ in a dreadful British accent, "Have the cook make some more of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies, will you?"

"Idjit," glowered Bobby.

"Use your inside voice inside, RJ," sighed Dean, in the manner of a parent who suspects that no matter how many times he says it, it's never going to get through. "What are you two doin' out there?"

"Looking at the junk," Frankie replied, taking the two travel mugs to be bench. She expertly began to make coffee for both of them, something she'd learned to do at a very early age.

"Find anything good?" asked Bobby. 'Looking at the junk' was something that both youngsters had liked to do since they were small: they would find a piece of some defunct machine, and spend hours poking and prodding at it, trying to figure out how it had worked, and what it had been. There had been some pretty outlandish suggestions over the years. The tumble dryer casing that had been determined to be a time machine for squirrels was probably Bobby's favourite.

"Yeah," answered RJ, "But we can't shift it. It's stuck pretty good."

The adults exchanged small discreet smiles.

"What are you doin', Frankie?" queried Sam.

"I'm just making some coffee for the gargoyles, Dad," she replied, "While we're outside. You want one while I'm here?"

"She knows how to run that machine," beamed Dean, "I've never seen anybody turn out a low-fat, high-emo, dolphin-friendly ozone-safe skinny mocha latte which girly syrup as fast as your kid, bro."

"Zan showed me how," Frankie told them, "And I thought I'd fill their mugs up for them."

"They do love them some java," chortled Bobby. "Well, you two just be careful out there, there's stuff that can hurt you, you know that."

"Yes Grandpa Bobby," the kids chorused obediently before heading out again.

"Now, that right there," Bobby began as they left, "That right there is damned suspicious."

"They've just found something to keep them occupied," Sam assured him. "You know what they're like, RJ will try to figure out how it works, and Frankie will be in later researchin' it to see what it does."

"Besides, you saw how it's stuck under all that other stuff – they'll never get it out by themselves," Dean grinned. "And isn't that sort of play meant to be healthy for kids? You know, unstructured play, and imagination, problem solving, and all that? They're not slumped in front of a game console."

"Sometimes, it'd be less worry if they were," Bobby sighed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What do you think?" asked RJ anxiously, as the two gargoyles peered and prodded at the tangle of metal. The two stone creatures conferred in their own subsonic language, then Tiem, the older and slightly smaller of the two, gave him a big grin, and a thumbs up. "Awesome! Well, there's no time like the present."

Zan gestured to him to step back, then the gargoyles took hold of the old tricycle. Long stone arms heaved, and with a creak and a snap, it came away. Tossing it aside, they took hold of what was underneath it, and began to pull.

Frankie was right – it had been there for some time, and it was partially stuck in the earth. But it was no match for the strength of living granite, and the mechanical advantage of such long arms, and eventually, with a violent shudder, it sprang free of the tangle of decaying metal.

Tiem and Zan picked themselves up, then inspected their booty with RJ.

"This is great!" the kid enthused, "Just about all the bits are here! Thanks guys! We couldn't have done it without you!"

Grinning, the gargoyles each performed a little bow.

"I got you coffee," announced Frankie, who'd been walking more slowly with the mugs. "Oh, hey, you got it out! Thanks!"

Zan jumped into the air and did a happy little somersault, and they accepted their mugs with nods of thanks, then the gargoyles of Singer Salvage headed back to their gateposts, returning to their unceasing vigilance.

RJ heaved their acquisition upright. "Come on," he chattered in excitement, "We gotta get this to the shed!"

With a giggle of glee, she got behind him to help push.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You think this might be a job?" asked Bobby.

"Could be," confirmed Sam, "But I need more intel, to work out what it is."

"I never do like to hear that there may be a fugly operatin' this close to home," the old Hunter muttered. "It's not even an hour away. Barely the other side of town."

"Which means, once Samantha here has done his laptop dancing, we can go and gank it, then be home in time for dinner. And Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies," beamed Dean sunnily. "Robert."

"Watch it, asshat," Bobby grumbled. "Well, let me know if you need a hand chasin' intel, I got somethin' I gotta look up for another Hunter, but I can... God's tits!"

"What? What?" Sam joined Bobby at the kitchen window. "What is it... oh, God, are you kidding me?"

"What is it, ladies?" Dean's curiosity prompted him to join them, "Must be something interesting to get your panties twisted..."

As RJ and Frankie went across the yard with their prize, he pushed the window open, and bellowed,

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?"

"What does it look like, Dad?" grinned RJ happily. "It's our new project!"

Sam rounded on Dean. "You said they couldn't possibly get it out!" he snapped, "You said that it was stuck in there so good, that they'd never get it out!"

Bobby's eyes narrowed as they settled on the gargoyles with their mugs. "I think they coulda had some help," he sighed.

"Well, it's, it's..." stammered Dean, waving a hand uncertainly, "It's junk. It's been there for years. There's no way, no way, they'll get it running."

"Dean," said Bobby quietly, "We are talkin' about the son of a talented mechanic, who's turnin' into a damned fine wrench himself already, and the daughter of a smartass, who has already demonstrated a frightenin' capacity to figure things out. Are you _really_ sayin' you think that they'll never get it running?"

They watched, with a sense of defeat and parental gloom, as the Winchester kids manhandled the old trailbike into one of the sheds.

Dean wilted. "It's nothing I didn't do when I was a kid," he sighed. "And it could be worse. We could have the Jaeger kids here. They've got their mother's talent for metal work. Sabine can already weld almost as well as Ronnie. Neither of ours is that good with that stuff; that'll slow them down..."

Later, the door banged again, and they were back inside again.

"Please tell me you're not gonna try and get that thing going," groaned Sam.

"I don't think we can," answered RJ, with a brutally frank assessment of his own ability. "It's pretty seized up, but it's the frame that's the real problem; some bits are rusted right through. The swingarm isn't safe. I could find a lot of it in the yard, but I don't think it's something that just the two of us can do."

Dean found that he was torn between disappointment for his son, and relief that he wouldn't have to worry about the kid tearing around on a resurrected trailbike. "Well, it was worth a shot to look at it," he smiled, "Maybe you could pull the engine, see if you can get it going, they're worth money."

"So, shall we make some of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies instead?" asked Bobby.

"Oh no," smiled Frankie, moving to the sideboard to collect her cell from the charger, "Just the two of us can't do it. I came in for my phone; I'm gonna take some pictures, and send them to Sabine, and see what she things we should do."

"She's real good at that sort of stuff," RJ nodded, "If anybody can suggest a fix for that swingarm, it's her."

With a final raid on the cookie jar, they headed back outside.

"God's tits," sighed Sam.

"And Satan's toilet tissue," agreed Dean.


	3. Plot Bunny 2: A desperate remedy

**Bunny Number Two**

_Not like this. Not like this. Not like this._

The thought bounced around in Dean's head as he ripped off his own overshirt and clutched it to the gaping wound on Sam's side; his brother's shirt was already soaked through, and the blood flow showed little sign of slowing.

_Not like this. Not like this. No, Sammy, not like this._

"Stay with me bro," he half demanded, half begged, watching Sam try desperately to keep focused on him, but his little brother was losing the battle. "Stay with me, just until I can get you patched up, then we'll hit the nearest Emergency Room, and check out the nurses..."

"Dean," Sam's voice was barely a choked whisper, "Dean... "

"I gotcha, bro, I gotcha," Dean made himself smile, even as his voice caught. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy, you'll be fine..."

Black dogs. Not one, but two. They never saw it coming. If Jimi hadn't been there to offer a last-minute warning, and then run interference on one of them, both Winchesters would be dead.

As it was, it looked like, pretty soon, one might be.

_Not like this. Not like this._

Whining, Jimi Junior licked at Sam's face, and turned large, worried eyes to Dean.

"Cold," whispered Sam, his grip on Dean's arm fading, "Dean... it's cold..."

"I know," Dean picked up his jacket, and draped it over his fallen brother, "But you just hang in there, and stay awake for me, and..."

Sam's eyes fluttered, and closed.

_Not like this._

Dean looked around wildly. They were too far from the car – he'd never get his baby bro back there in time, and he couldn't take his hands off the wounds, or Sam would bleed out there and then. They'd had to hike in to track the Black Dogs; emergency services would never get to them in time. They'd never get Sam out in time. He was screwed. They were screwed. Totally screwed.

Jimi lay down next to Sam, huddling against him, and whined sadly. In the light of the full moon, his eyes were full on an understanding that no ordinary dog would have.

The full moon. It was the last night of the full moon.

Racked with desperation and a crushing sense of guilt and a loss he couldn't bear, Dean took out his cell, and made a call, relaying a desperate message in a voice that was half-sob, and sent some co-ordinates.

As he rang off and put his other hand back to the field dressing, he whispered to his brother:

"Forgive me."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sitting in cold darkness, begging his brother not to die, Dean finally heard the sound of something big crashing through the undergrowth towards them well before it arrived – whatever it was, it was in too much of a hurry to bother with stealth at all. Jimi stood up, and howled mournfully into the night.

The answering howl was deeper, and make the hair on Dean's neck stand up.

"Here!" he yelled as loudly as he could, "We're here! Over here!"

The noise changed direction slightly. Jimi set up a frantic barking, a beacon for a searcher to home in on...

Seven-plus feet of alpha-male Old North werewolf burst through the trees and into the clearing, chest heaving, fangs bristling. It barely paused, dropping to all fours to run at the Winchesters.

Looming over Sam, the monster paused and eyed Dean.

"Do it!" he hissed urgently.

With a gruff snarl of understanding, the monster crouched, reared back, and sank its teeth into his little brother's arm.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Some minutes later, a smaller werewolf, a female, arrived at the clearing, and raced to Dean's side. She had a bag clutched in her mouth, which she dropped at his knee.

"Ronnie," he almost sobbed in relief, as the wolf shifted back to her human form. "Thank fuck..."

"I sent him ahead," she panted, jerking a thumb at the male, who was prowling the clearing, alert for any further threats, "Because his legs are longer, and he can go faster. And he's not so good at carrying stuff." She tore into the bag, which contained several large field dressings. "Here, use these," she instructed, "At least we can secure 'em. Andrew, stop prowling, you berk, if there were any more Black Dogs within cooee you've scared them all to death with your noise, you werehippo – come here and do med shit!"

The male loped back to them, and appeared to be concentrating hard.

"Oh, fuck," moaned Ronnie, "Of all the times for you to get stuck..."

With a whine and a shake of his head, Andrew managed to transform.

"Yes! Yesss! I'm the king of the world!" he yipped in a brief moment of triumph, before dropping to his knees to examine Sam. "It's bad," he stated without preamble, "We gotta get him to Emergency. Fifteen minutes ago."

"We found where you parked," Ronnie told Dean, as he secured another dressing on top of the ones holding his brother together, "You're bloody miles away. We're gunna have to do this in fur coats."

"I can live with that," muttered Dean, not looking up as he applied a dressing to the bite wound that Andrew had left. "Thanks, guys."

"Don't thank us yet," Andrew said grimly, "I dunno if I got to him soon enough. Let's go." He stood, looked up at the moon as if bathing in the light, and let himself shift back to the wolf.

Carefully, he picked up Sam, and headed back the way he'd come at a ground-eating lope. Jimi took off, hot on his heels.

"Don't worry," Ronnie assured him, "He cut a track wide enough to drive a bloody truck through on the way in. So looks like it's just you and me. You ever learn to ride?"

"Rode a donkey once," Dean muttered, looking anxiously at where Andrew had just disappeared with his brother. "At the Grand Canyon. It farted a lot, apparently."

"I'll do my best not to," grinned Ronnie, standing, "And if I do, we'll leave the smell behind anyway. So, how does that bumper sticker go? Get in, shut up – and hang on."

With a shrug, she shifted to her wolf form, and dropped to all fours to allow him to climb onto her back.

He barely had time to get a hold on her fur before she began to run.


End file.
